Still Us
Still Us
George and Margaret had been married for 53 years, 2 months, and 18 days — not that anyone was counting, except George. He had a little notebook in the drawer beside his bed where he recorded the number of kisses they shared each week (the average was still quite respectable). They lived in a quiet cottage at the edge of a sleepy village, where time moved just a little slower — which suited them just fine. One morning, as the sun painted the kitchen with golden light, George was stirring tea and humming the song that had played at their wedding: Unforgettable. Margaret sat at the table, knitting what would probably become a slightly misshapen scarf for one of their great-grandkids. George shuffled over, put the mug in front of her, and said with a soft smile, “We’re 75 years old now, you know.” Margaret raised an eyebrow, still knitting. “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m 29 in my heart.” He chuckled, sitting beside her. “Well, then I guess I’m the lucky guy who married a timeless beauty.” She finally looked up, amused. “Flattery this early in the morning? What do you want, George?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out and took her hand — the one not holding a needle — and kissed it gently. “I still love you, Margaret,” he said. “As much as the first day I saw you. Maybe more. You’ve put up with me for all these years. That deserves a medal. Or at least another kiss.” Margaret pretended to think about it. “Hmm… I suppose I could spare one. But only because you made the tea just right.” They leaned in, glasses gently clinking, and kissed like teenagers who’d just discovered what love felt like. A soft laugh escaped her lips. George grinned. “Still got it.” Later that evening, wrapped in a shared blanket on their old couch, they watched the same film they’d seen every anniversary: Casablanca. And just before falling asleep, Margaret whispered, “We’ve changed so much… but we’re still us.” George kissed her forehead and whispered back, “Still us. Always us.” And in the silence of their little cottage, filled with ticking clocks, shared memories, and the smell of old books, love — real, quiet, enduring love — lived on.
George and Margaret had been married for 53 years, 2 months, and 18 days — not that anyone was counting, except George. He had a little notebook in the drawer beside his bed where he recorded the number of kisses they shared each week (the average was still quite respectable). They lived in a quiet cottage at the edge of a sleepy village, where time moved just a little slower — which suited them just fine. One morning, as the sun painted the kitchen with golden light, George was stirring tea and humming the song that had played at their wedding: Unforgettable. Margaret sat at the table, knitting what would probably become a slightly misshapen scarf for one of their great-grandkids. George shuffled over, put the mug in front of her, and said with a soft smile, “We’re 75 years old now, you know.” Margaret raised an eyebrow, still knitting. “Speak for yourself, old man. I’m 29 in my heart.” He chuckled, sitting beside her. “Well, then I guess I’m the lucky guy who married a timeless beauty.” She finally looked up, amused. “Flattery this early in the morning? What do you want, George?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out and took her hand — the one not holding a needle — and kissed it gently. “I still love you, Margaret,” he said. “As much as the first day I saw you. Maybe more. You’ve put up with me for all these years. That deserves a medal. Or at least another kiss.” Margaret pretended to think about it. “Hmm… I suppose I could spare one. But only because you made the tea just right.” They leaned in, glasses gently clinking, and kissed like teenagers who’d just discovered what love felt like. A soft laugh escaped her lips. George grinned. “Still got it.” Later that evening, wrapped in a shared blanket on their old couch, they watched the same film they’d seen every anniversary: Casablanca. And just before falling asleep, Margaret whispered, “We’ve changed so much… but we’re still us.” George kissed her forehead and whispered back, “Still us. Always us.” And in the silence of their little cottage, filled with ticking clocks, shared memories, and the smell of old books, love — real, quiet, enduring love — lived on.
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